“In the very beginning, or thereabouts,” Jason starts, “There were six gods who arose in pairs: Pauria, god of life, and their sibling Marethyu, god of death; Skyta, god of willpower, and Tvenry, god of fear; Klarya, god of fate, and Moran, god of knowledge. Unlike the legends of chosen ones, every mortal ever born was chosen by one of the gods. This god is their patron. The gods are a bit fickle, so keeping one’s patron in mind is never a bad idea when someone wants luck on their side.
“Patronage is almost entirely random—or chosen at least by some system we could never possibly understand—but one’s patron has some effect on their personality. Pauria’s chosen skew to either complete disregard for others, or completely pacifistic towards all life no matter how small. Klarya’s chosen are either always thrust to the forefront of situations, or completely forgettable slipping through society barely existing. The point being, though patrons are abstract, they’re always present and important to remember. And they like to appear at the worst times.”
“What’s my patron?” Zarcha interrupts.
Jason shrugs and looks at me. I shrug in return.
“It’s not always possible to tell right away,” I say, “That would be a question to ask the gods themselves.”
“So people don’t actually <i>know</i> their patron?”
I shake my head. “You might, or you might not. As Jason said, there’s signs, but it’s really up to the gods to let you know.”
“Then how can I appease mine if I don’t even know which one I’m appeasing?”
“That,” Jason says with a smile, “Is the problem. You can’t, or you can try appeasing them all. Or appease one at a time. Most people aren’t overly religious, except for the occasional prayer or curse.”
“So…wait, you said they like to appear?”
“Oh yes, I said people aren’t overly religious. But it’s not possible to not be religious at all. The gods make themselves known freely. Klarya is the worst for it, appearing quite a lot to her chosen to give them hints at their future. It’s just something that happens.”
“Have either of you met your patron?” she asks with wide eyes.
Jason shakes his head, but I nod. Zarcha looks to me.
“Once, when I was much younger. It was in one of my first years as an SCD detective. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught a Leporided in the middle of their escape. Kicked my head nearly off my neck. I woke up with Marethyu standing above me, in a hall of endless souls that shuffled past. They were strange, there but not <i>there. </i>They helped me up and muttered something about, <i>‘Too much bureaucracy with death’ </i>or something like that in a voice I can’t forget. Like a scream but under your breath? I don’t know. He healed me and shoved back into the world of the living, said to come back when it was actually my turn.”
“Now I really want to know mine. You sure you guys don’t know mine?”
“Let’s put it another way. You’re probably chosen by Marethyu, Skyta, or Tvenri. I’ve met only a handful of werewolves chosen by Pauria, and Klarya and Moran rarely make themselves patrons at all—rare, of course, being still on the magnitude of billions, but compared to Pauria and Marethyu, it’s rare. If I had to guess, having only known you a short time, I would say Skyta. You’re strong, Zarcha, and you have a huge amount of bravery for escaping your capture and facing this strange new world with your head high.”
Zarcha laughs. “It’s a lot easier when you’re here, Jason.” She lays her head on his shoulder, and I see him stiffen. I manage, only barely, to keep a smirk off my face. He doesn’t move her though, and I mentally shrug. It’s his battle. And maybe he’s discovering new feelings in himself. I was never really interested in women myself, but each to their own.
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Jason clears his throat. “Anyway, our history is a little longer, Zarcha.”
She just nods and sits back up in her chair, smiling all the while.
“The first people were the Chaosin, beings of pure chaos. This was before the gods, mind you, when everything was nothing and nothing was everything. Immortal beings with zero moral compass that warred endlessly between themselves, forming paper-thin alliances broken at the first sign of weakness. But they could not die as death did not exist. They wished that they could finally kill each other, and so they were mortal. Every single Chaosin died to a person, and so the universe was silent. But their wish had created the gods we know, and so they created everything we know, the stars and the planets and the people. In that time, there was again only one people. These people spread across the universe and settled in to carve out their own pockets.”
“What were they called, these new people?” Zarcha asks.
“No idea. If they had a name when they were one people, it was never recorded. That would be a question for the High King, if we’re allowed to even speak. He would probably be the only one to know.”
“Who is the High King again?”
Jason shushes her with a finger to his lips. “In a little bit. First, I have to tell you how the werewolves got where they are.”
Zarcha nods enthusiastically. I meanwhile pour myself another tall glass of replicated liquor and retreat to one of the couches to nurse it. Jason looks over his shoulder at me. “You want to tell this part, Detective Carter?”
“Ugh, fine, make me do all the work.” I clear my throat. “The people, the first people, they spread out. Two groups simultaneously land on a planet they’ll call Ruinea. These become the vampires and the werewolves over time, receiving fragmented powers from what remained of the Chaosin in every fiber of space. Like every group ever, they decide they hate each other and start an all out fight for a thousand years called the First Shadow War. Both sides rapidly research everything they can to boost their own advantages and prey on their opponent’s weaknesses. Anyway, they get so into it that they destroy the whole planet, blown straight through into chunks. The werewolves find a new planet they call Wolven, and the vampires take one they call Vampiria. Creative names, I know. They play it cold for a while, knowing another war so soon will destroy them both and their new planets, so they resort to spying. Then that spying moves through the ranks until most of the common people eventually forget they have an enemy waiting out there. Only the respective governments retain some amount of intel.
“Both peoples, now unshackled from the other, develop their own cultures and philosophies. The werewolves choose strength-in-numbers and nuclear armament, and a king. The vampires choose strongest-survive and nanotechnology, and a secret government that is rarely seen but often heard. Something, and it’s a debate what, starts the Second Shadow War. They fight for another thousand years, never able to touch the other’s homeworlds but taking other worlds in the process and making allies of the other species they find. On and on they fight, and of course resistance groups crop up everywhere opposed to the fighting. Eventually I guess the High King got annoyed listening to them, so he stepped in and made them sit down at the negotiation table.
Thus, we now live in the Night Republic, a system that controls most of the known universe, ruled by a council made of representatives from all member species that elect a leader amongst themselves, mainly for diplomatic and mediator purposes. It was awful at first, with mainly the werewolves and the vampires and their close allies being a part, and no one really trusted each other yet. It was a long road, but the Night Republic is still going strong almost a hundred years later.”
Zarcha taps her foot impatiently. “So <i>who</i> is the High King?”
I blink a couple times, the alcohol starting to mess with my senses. “Right, um. The High King. The High King is a position chosen by the Elder Council, a conglomerate of the highest ranking people from all over, including the Six Judges—the six leaders of each of the respective churches. When a High King is elected, they ascend to the pinnacle of King’s Isle, so high as to be said they speak directly with the gods. They must do something up there because they live for a long time once they get there. The current High King has been in power for…three hundred or so years? The only people that ever really see him are the elected leader of the Night Republic, his various friends, or people the have <i>grievously </i>fucked up. Not that we’d know. The current High King is not only the Judge of Moran, and so basically omniscient as far we care, but a Nelotha. He could be anyone anywhere at any time.”
“And…” Zarcha shudders suddenly and grasps Jason’s hand hard enough to turn her knuckles white, “He wants to meet…us?”
I return the sentiment with a grimace and a long swallow of my drink. “My thoughts exactly. It’s not a good thing. People don’t just…<i>meet</i> the High King, at his place of residence, out of the blue. It doesn’t happen.”
“In other words…” Jason says, letting himself trail off.
“We’re <i>fucked,</i>” Zarcha finishes.